Just Let Me Die - A Widowmaker Story
by SovereignGFC
Summary: The journey from Amelie Lacroix to Widowmaker.
1. Expecting

**Chapter 1 – Expecting**

 _Though Overwatch's agents dazzled the world with their heroics and were searching out promising recruits every day, they couldn't be everywhere at once._

"I look forward to taking delivery."

Colonel Gérard Lacroix of Overwatch Military Operations shook the hands of the lead scientific staff from Helix International who'd developed a next-generation powered armor called Raptora. The current iteration reached Mark II status, having overcome flight limitations that nearly crippled Mark I. These rapid-response units would aid his already-successful mission: securing global peace. The First Omnic Crisis passed but the threat of violent radicals remained, especially a nebulous group calling itself "Talon."

Lacroix wasn't paid to figure out why Talon attacked Overwatch facilities or attempted to stir up anti-Omnic hysteria. His job was to stop them, no matter what. To that end, he was to oversee the transfer of six Raptora Mk. II suits to the Egyptian Army. Multiple quantum-dot microchips meant stolen hardware would be recovered quickly, but Backlash mini-rockets were still dangerous even if they were only in the hands of wrongdoers for a day.

He tilted his head upon realizing who followed a General at a respectful but protective distance.

 _Ana's daughter is quite impressive. Already attached to classified operations at her age!_

Because the suits were developed with substantial investment from Overwatch, they were technically supranational property belonging to the organization itself, rather than being given freely to recipients. In that regard, Lacroix handed over command codes that would enable the suits to start up—six disks in all.

"We have backups" he assured a jumpy General. "But it will cost you if you want them shipped overnight."

Unfortunately for the keen eyes of both command staff and their attachés like Amari, there was nothing "cool" to see as each set of armor was packed in a shock-absorbing, electromagnetically shielded, reinforced case for transport that left nothing visible. Gérard scanned each case with his personal digital device, marking them as "arrived at destination." An authenticated PKI handshake with Egyptian military equipment completed the transaction, formally transferring responsibility and operational rights to the recipient.

"At least the instructions are digital."

Lacroix set down a briefcase he'd been carrying. His thumbprint unlocked the unassuming black box, and its latches retracted with a series of clicks. He'd been told that it wasn't an exaggeration that printing the operational manual on paper for Raptora would deforest a small park.

Afterward as the usual social festivities set in, a smartly-saluting Fareeha Amari stepped over to meet him.

"Did your mother tell you to butter me up?" he asked, though he was smiling.

"No sir" she replied. "I…"

She suddenly stopped talking, lost for words.

"Oh, I know what you want to ask, but you're feeling like a child seeing if the other parent will let you have candy right before dinner because the first one you asked said no."

Amari's cheeks turned slightly red, but her darker complexion hid this from the Frenchman.

"You want to know what it takes to get into Overwatch. I know your type—dedicated, focused, and most of all, a _believer_. A government can buy as many guns as it wants, build a whole horde of Omnics. But it can't make someone believe. All I can tell you is that those deemed worthy will hear from us."


	2. Delivery

**Chapter 2 – Delivery**

As the evening aged, staff and security found themselves regaled by stories of Colonel Lacroix's daring exploits. His wife, Amélie, teased that he was a relentless braggart, though hardly unjustified in doing so. Especially when it was not him, but others who brought it up.

"Talon subverted our supply chain-it's a hazard when there are sub-sub-sub-contractors working with advanced technology. They'd retreated to a base somewhere in the Indian subcontinent" (he wasn't going to give away _too_ many details). "While Blackwatch may be fond of Vishkar and their agents, not everyone shares that opinion. I asked to send in my team first."

Lacroix had to tamp down a debate about the merits of Vishkar before it could start, and continued with his story.

"We were able to get past their snipers-thermal camo works wonders-plant a detonator on the main door. Unfortunately, the reason they'd gone after our experimental self-healing armor became readily apparent in the form of troopers wearing it."

Even in present company, eyes became noticeably larger, people sat up straighter in their chairs.

"I was pinned. I broke open a nearby 'In case of emergency' cabinet that contained sonic weaponry meant to dissuade approach to the facility. These were different than the usual 'riot' versions. Military ShockWaves could be dialed to very lethal settings-and unlike our Heavy Pulse Rifles that seemed to be doing nothing, I watched nearly-invincible armor literally melt under ShockWave fire."

He lowered his voice as if spilling a secret.

"I also sent the data directly to Overwatch as having our strongest defenses defeated by something as simple as a sonic weapon is _not_ acceptable. Needless to say, Vishkar was furious that Talon managed to obtain their best sonic devices, but as I pointed out, they _also_ grabbed proprietary Overwatch armor which was the reason for the mission in the first place. Our EMP wiped out all data at the facility. I'd call that a success!"

As the party began to wind down, cleaning crews moved in to take away empty champagne glasses, dirty plates, and soiled napkins. Talon had no need to remind everyone how direct they could be, but chose to do so anyway as several staff members dropped dead.

"They aren't being very subtle about this, are they?"

Lacroix followed procedure, keeping close his assigned protectors.

"Put your security in my hands" said Fareeha Amari. Despite being mostly present for optics, Amari the others on his security team carried military rifles and used them to great effect.

"Armored fighting vehicle!" called out one. "Get to cover!"

You weren't supposed to try to shoot the lifters on an anti-grav vehicle. Not that they exploded or anything, but rather due to any practical military example being covered by armor plates that left such a small profile of the device itself that shooting a weapon out of someone's hand might have better odds. The sharp reports of Amari's weapon belied her attempt to do so anyway.

CRUNCH.

"Target eliminated."

Well, not eliminated, but immobile. Instead of being able to use the vehicle as cover while advancing relentlessly forward, Talon's operatives now found themselves stuck with a rather vehicle-shaped bunker since it could not move on only two lifts. Already, Overwatch response units were making themselves known as Talon's lightning-quick attack plan bogged down.

"You really do have your mother's eyes" complimented the Colonel. "I'll make sure this is noted."

Within minutes, Overwatch soldiers swarmed the building, utterly outclassing everything Talon brought to the table. Reliance on "hit-and-fade" only worked when the "fade" part wasn't cut off by a half-dozen infantry fighting vehicles.

"That was completely against protocol, reckless, and uncalled for!" scolded Lacroix as he turned to leave. He let his voice drop. "Nevertheless, this tendency to leap without looking in pursuit of the greater good is something Overwatch values highly in the right person…"


	3. Main Verte

**Chapter 3 – Main Verte**

 _Poussez, petites plantes!_

Gérard might have ribbed her for speaking to her plants, but Amélie firmly believed in spending time with them beyond basic maintenance. Besides, plants weren't just a hobby—they were her livelihood. Especially after the Omnic Crisis caused such devastation, there were many like Vishkar Corporation who wanted to simply pave over everything with "modernity."

"But what about the forests? The gardens? The fields?" she'd asked upon being told that the company had applied through a subsidiary to redevelop sections of Paris damaged during the conflict. "They want to build over the _Parc floral de Paris_ instead of growing it back? Disgusting!"

This threat to the natural beauty enshrined in her hometown motivated Amélie to turn her little garden into something more. Tapping into a "cultural preservation fund" under the logic that simply replacing everything with orderly, bright-white photon constructs was simply _un-French_ , Mdme. Lacroix received a large grant from Overwatch itself.

"If we lose our art and creativity, the world will be lessened" she said with conviction during the ceremony in which the funds were handed over. "We mustn't forget who we are."

Similar monies were allocated to the Rushmore Restoration Society, Bailey Builders, and Pyramid Raisers as the Omnic Crisis left no country untouched. Some even said the God Programs made it a priority to destroy heritage items to demoralize their human opponents. Publically, Overwatch scoffed at this but behind closed doors, it wasn't considered too farfetched for true artificial intelligence to develop a sense of spite.

In direct response to destruction wrought by the war, her greenhouse appeared at striking speed over destroyed shops. Over a city block long, it would house hundreds of different types of plants. On opening day, Amélie found herself approached by the shopkeepers who used to run the street and whose land rights had been purchased to make way.

"Watch out for the street ruffians" they'd said. "Those little pigs will probably dig up your flowers out of boredom."

Sure enough, she later caught several kids running pell-mell through the aisles of green. A few pots tipped, spilling soil onto the clean floor.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Playing" replied a short girl whose hair looked unwashed.

"You're just like those shopkeepers" pouted a boy upon noticing Amélie's obvious upper-class clothing. He cruelly imitated the voice of an old woman while making shooing gestures. "Go away, street rats! Find someone else to bother!"

 _What bothers me_ she thought _is that we have the ability to conjure cities out of light, yet children roam the streets unsupervised, uncared for, and hungry._

She motioned for the five youngsters to follow.

"No way" called out the girl who'd responded to Amélie's first inquiry, dismissing the invitation. "We're not going with you to the police station! There's nobody for us to go home to anyway."

"Do you want a meal and shower or not?"

Rapid, hushed conversation among the intruders. She only caught snips of it, but most centered around "why would someone like her do this?"

Her husband had offhandedly mentioned some "chronal accelerator" device invented by a gorilla that had reached human levels of intelligence (possibly beyond) through genetic augmentation. Yet children lived on the streets.

Without saying anything, the quintet sulked after Amélie as if she were leading them off to something unpleasant.

Upon reaching the Lacroix residence, the gaggle of children stopped to stare.

"It's huge!"

"What do you think her husband does?"

"I wonder if they have kids our age?"

Amélie laughed, a sound that they found strangely comforting.

"This is positively modest by Parisian standards" she said, not thinking anything of it, a small two-level crammed between many others just like it.

"But you have a _house_!" gasped the boy who'd mocked her before.

"Take turns in the shower while I make lunch."

It occurred to her that Gérard might not approve of this. But he wasn't here-away on some Overwatch business again. Technical issues with equipment loaned to the Egyptian Army, he'd said.

As she suspected, these were war orphans. Their parents had been killed in various Omnic-related clashes over the years; some were slain by Omnics directly, while others died in the unrest that followed. The world had poured almost all its resources into Overwatch to put down the Omnics and then physical reconstruction efforts/security after the war ended, leaving precious little for civilian "comforts" like "social services."

 _And we thought the Americans were bad about, as they say, all guns, no butter_ she fumed.

Sent on their way with full stomachs and feeling squeaky clean for the first time in ages, the children were told "Come back to the greenhouse on Wednesday, 0700 hours." She would happily feed and pay them to keep order (she realized the irony in this considering what she'd first found them doing); even if it got them off the streets for a few hours every couple days it was better than their current situation. It might not fit well with her existing budget which assumed almost sole proprietorship, but she vowed to make it work.


	4. Opposites Attract

**Chapter 4 - Opposites Attract, or a Study in Similarities**

Colonel Gérard Lacroix returned from, as he put it "playing tech support for people who don't read manuals." He looked forward to escaping the heat, avoiding any more sand, and enjoying the company of his wife. Assuming he could get her out of that greenhouse, anyway.

"For some reason, not only are the stylized lilies selling, but chrysanthemums are also flying off the shelves" she'd said.

"Maybe you were right about this" replied Gérard. He'd initially believed Amélie's request for cultural funding strange, even silly, but it seemed to be having a motivating effect on the nearby populace.

The pair walked through the large greenhouse. Amélie stopped in confusion at a large space cleared for a plant she'd heard of, but not seen.

"Vishkar's people dropped this by" explained the Colonel. "They were trying to show goodwill before the City of Paris rejected their proposed redevelopment contract. Some lady named 'Symmetra' brought it to the regional Overwatch command here."

She made a mental note to warn the children to be careful around the Himalayan giant lily.

"It is supposed to bloom soon, but that's relative" said her husband. "Four to seven years."

"Oh really? Since when do you pay attention to anything about plants?" she teased. "Last I checked, you said if I keep talking to them, I'll turn into one and you'll have to water me too!"

"I, uhh… I looked it up" he confessed. Seeing a muddy copy of _InsideWatch: Your Guide to the World's Greatest Heroes_ open on a shelf, he gave as good as he got. "So you _do_ read that magazine you always say is only useful as scrap paper for covering plants in the winter! Ha!"

Truth be told, though their hobbies and lines of work were almost completely opposite one another, it made for very similar people in other ways. Of course, they hardly knew it upon first meeting. Amélie Labelle was a museum conservator whose only involvement with Overwatch had been filing claims against them after one of their high-tech aircraft crashed into the entryway to her building. Thankfully, very little of value was damaged or lost, "but it's the principle" she'd insisted, "that this place be made whole again."

The fact that Overwatch agents then proceeded to _blow up_ the downed aircraft, causing more damage, made her even angrier.

"I'm sorry, miss. This vehicle's technology cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of Talon!"

Whoever this person was, he seemed to already have his mind elsewhere.

"Listen here" (she looked down at his namebadge, "G. Lacroix," before getting in his face) " _mister_ Lacroix. You are either going to authorize repairs or direct me to someone who will. It's bad enough that the governments of the world obsessively fund Overwatch while everything else goes to ruin. The least you could do is pretend to care!"

Gérard recoiled as if slapped. He'd never encountered anybody this insistent on what he explained was Restoration Protocol 37—that, at least on paper, Overwatch assumed some financial burden should its operations cause "unacceptable" damage to uninvolved civilian property.

"So I fill out these three forms. Hand one to you, send one to Overwatch itself, and keep the last for my own records?"

The Colonel hoped that would be the last he'd see of this feisty Amélie woman. She'd barged into his office the moment it opened to the public the day after she'd received Restoration Protocol 37 forms, absolutely demanding to see him. He awkwardly handed her a pot of lilies he'd purchased out of his own pocket. Even if Overwatch itself played fast and loose, he could, as she accused him of, "pretend to care."

She stared, then glared at him.

"And I suppose your agents have been digging up information on me, finding ways to buy me off?" she pouted.

"I'm sorry, miss, I didn't mean…"

"Lilies are my favorite flower" she replied. "Unless it was just dumb luck…"

How a grizzled Colonel on a government salary could win the affections of a knockout woman ten years his junior with whom he had profound philosophical disagreements was a secret the couple never told, other than saying "it was a long dance." As much as their worldviews differed, each remained fiercely devoted to their causes without creating conflict between themselves.

The greenhouse required a wholesale career change, resulting in Amélie handing in a resignation letter so she could tend to her plants full-time. Her off-budget kindness stretched their resources still further, but if Gérard ever noticed anything funny in the finances, he never brought it up.

The next morning, Amélie found a pack of five brand-new, official YOURwatch action figures on the greenhouse counter, including the very-rare Hovering Mercy.


	5. Anniversary

**Chapter 5 – Anniversary**

"This is amazing!"

Chloé couldn't believe Mdme. Lacroix somehow managed to obtain an Angela "Mercy" Ziegler toy ("with real floating action!"). As a matter of fact, each one of the roving band received an action figure that happened to be one of their most idolized heroes in Overwatch.

Raphael beatboxed around the greenhouse, water can in hand, to Lúcio's "Maximum Tempo." More than once, he had to pick "Lúcio" off the ground as the computer's dance routines weren't intelligent enough to avoid falling off the narrow shelves of a greenhouse. That being said, there was a reason everyone wanted official figures—they were display-quality while still being durable enough to play with daily.

Lucie wouldn't stop pressing the "Locked On" button on the back of her Jack Morrison figure—"Tactical Visor activated!"

"No, Clement, you can't water my plants with that" scolded Amélie. "Put Zhou Mei-Ling away before I take her away!" She initially hesitated to give any of the children the Zhou toy; it could and did produce real icy mist. That meant part of it (mainly the backside) got very warm while it also consumed power cells at an extremely high rate. But Amélie was nothing if not fair, and if everyone else was getting one Clement would too.

At first, Nolan was disappointed that Lena "Tracer" Oxton couldn't zip around like the vids ("DOES NOT WARP TIME"). Then he realized it gave him an excuse to run around shouting "Cheers love, the cavalry's here!" after which his disappointment evaporated.

The five of them had settled into somewhat of a routine. Not only did they receive regular pocket money from "Mdme. Lacroix," she also managed to connect them to one of the few non-profit children's shelters still operating after Overwatch funding decimated government social-services budgets.

She smiled and sighed at the same time. If the only worry she had employing kids off the street was that they'd left the greenhouse door ajar (again), it wasn't really much to fret about at all. They'd even obeyed her command to stay away from the giant Himalayan lily without so much as a "But why?" About to shut the door, something caught her eye: brown. Brown in any garden meant death—but the humidity controls were working. Raphael had been extremely diligent about watering. So why would there be a whole section of dried-up plants?

"Ouch!" Whatever it was she'd picked up—something metallic—it was still hot. And something else. Her hand felt strange, like it had become slippery all of the sudden. Amélie quickly washed it off while snapping a few photos of twisted pieces where the giant lily used to be. She media-messaged them to her husband.

"Ick!" She stepped around something, not sure what it was in the fading dusk until she flipped on a light. A small, dead animal, maybe a squirrel of some kind. Her phone buzzed.

"GET OUT OF THERE. NOW!"

She couldn't breathe after returning to the house as Gérard would not stop squeezing her.

"Do you know what that was?" he demanded, the gravely, military-ish tone he only used professionally (never with her, not even jokingly) surfacing. "That was a proximity explosive used by enemies of Overwatch. From the looks of it, that animal you saw set it off. As to how it got there…"

The Colonel immediately reported the incident despite the late hour. Talon appeared to have it in for him, and possibly his family. It hadn't been that long ago that a Talon fighting vehicle loaded with troops tried to crash his handover of Raptora suits to the Egyptian Army—they likely resented his success in a dozen operations against them.

"Yes sir. I will install the cameras first thing next week!"

He turned back to his wife.

"We're installing cameras in the greenhouse. Full three-dimensional, holographic, high-definition color with low-light and night modes. This isn't something to take lightly. Neither you nor anyone else will ever notice they're there."

Amélie suppressed unpleasant memories of hearing the same thing about her museum after Overwatch reconstruction crews finished (surprisingly quickly) restoring it.

"It's for your own safety, miss. From Talon's point of view, anyone who is even seen in the company of Overwatch agents becomes a target."

Then, of course, she had to go _marrying_ one, so she was always in the "company" of an agent—a rather important agent (if underpaid) at that.

She kissed him goodnight as Gérard sat down to work out camera placements.

"I'll put my security in your capable hands."


	6. Near-Miss

**Chapter 6 – Near-Miss**

"I suppose there's no risk—not this time" conceded Gérard.

He never liked the idea of Amélie accompanying him to the shuttleport, and found it more dangerous-sounding now. However, given the attack at the greenhouse that even Overwatch couldn't tell which one of them it was aimed at, said organization supplied an armored fighting vehicle for his trip. It was the same six-lift type deal used by dignitaries and even some of the legendary Overwatch heroes themselves. But only after they'd been convinced to do something other than take public transit for the sake of visibility—Tracer in particular loved "the Tube."

"What's the deal?" asked Amélie after armored doors hissed shut with a clank signifying Nuclear, Biological, Chemical, and Electromagnetic Pulse shielding was now in place.

"Conference" replied Gérard. "As usual. But a very important one. Talon activities have been increasing, as have agitators in both pro- and anti-Omnic groups."

He wasn't going to mention the bubbling trouble with Blackwatch.

"And you're going to try to find new ways to stop the bad guys."

He laughed. Amélie obviously knew the stakes were far higher than the animated, kid-friendly _MorningWatch_ that many children spent too many hours in front of (on that note, the Overwatch communication department had an unhealthy fascination with attaching "-Watch" to the end of everything as a tie-in).

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. We're bringing in other players now—instead of just Overwatch and governments, there will also be what you might call 'community' or 'civic' groups involved in some of the less-classified briefings."

Gérard suffered through years of ribbing that his wife influenced his evolving views on how Overwatch should relate to the rest of the world. Truth be told, it wasn't wrong, not entirely. Amélie hadn't changed him so much as exposed him to perspectives at a level he'd never before seen. Previously, as far as he could tell complaints about Overwatch came in the form of haughty editorials from ivory towers, internet trolling, and the occasional rowdy protest. As a Colonel who'd put his life on the line many times this only deepened his disdain for people who didn't understand what Overwatch actually did, only what they wanted to believe about it.

With "Miss Labelle" very much in his face over destruction at her museum, the notion of collateral damage suddenly came to the fore.

"If Overwatch would get off their 20,000 meter high horse and look around, maybe they'd realize there's good they _could_ be doing if they paid more attention" she'd insisted after he tried to stall her off filing a addendum to Protocol 37 that expanded Overwatch's financial liabilities for damage done.

"This was an important classified operation!" he protested. "If we had to do a Protocol 37 payout every time we…"

"Maybe you should be more careful" she shot back. "Or do you all not pay attention to MorningWatch?"

On the show, collateral damage almost always resulted in swift compensations if it was necessary at all. More likely, the surgical precision of Overwatch agents negated the need to worry about missed shots, so everyone just shook hands and went home.

"You don't live up to the image your propaganda department projects" she continued. "Yes, I went there. It's not information. It's propaganda! Did you know Lena Oxton stopped providing her voice for those little shorts because she thought making everything have a happy ending was doing the children of the world a disservice?"

The pressure group that brought about "Tracer's" change of heart some time ago, the Watchers, would be one of the community groups represented at the upcoming conference. Certainly, there were more radical members calling for the complete dissolution of Overwatch coupled with prosecution, but they were a minority.

 _Besides, our hands aren't clean either…_ he'd thought. Blackwatch had tangled with the more violent elements of the Watchers, people who'd tried to break into Watchpoint: Gibraltar for as-of-yet unknown reasons.

Back in the present, the woman who'd once scored Overwatch as jingoistic propagandists sang their praises regarding her husband's upcoming meeting. "The inclusion of Tekhartha Mondatta is a huge step" beamed Amélie, her radiant smile hidden in the darkness of their fighting vehicle. Armored personnel carriers, with their more limited weapon load-outs, had been abandoned in favor of simply using heavily reinforced infantry fighting vehicles for transport. "It shows Overwatch leadership is actually serious about getting absolutely everyone to the table on this."

"Apologies, M. and Mdme. Lacroix, but sharp maneuvers are necessary. Please brace yourselves."

"Sharp" was a relative term given that the six-lift handled like a drunken rhino at best as it listed lazily to the left. Both felt thumps transmitted through the V-shaped hull as something impacted armor outside.

Then…BAM. The vehicle slid sideways like some kind of carnival ride, though between seatbelts and their transport's own great mass, they moved less than one would expect given that a fully-laden ten-lift truck just struck them.

"We've been rammed" reported the driver. "They've crippled our rearmost right lift, but we will continue on to the shuttleport. Overwatch escorts are responding, and the colliding vehicle is in no shape to make another run."

Amélie would not learn more about what just happened, though Gérard would later receive a briefing upon arriving at his hotel.

"The two drivers had no papers, no IDs of any kind. Completely unremarkable with blasé work histories and no criminal record. Perfect sleeper agents" he read. "The only thing that saved you was riding in that IFV—they were anticipating a sedan or armored car at most. No way they knew or they'd have sent a bigger attacker!"

Gérard vidcalled Amélie from his aircraft prior to takeoff.

"Please promise me you'll hold out for another IFV" he pleaded. "Don't just take a cab! I promised you we'd visit Route 66 and I want to be able to keep that promise."

His voice started breaking as he hung up.

 _The kids aren't watering today_ she thought, _so I won't leave anyone waiting_.


	7. And Your Plants, Too!

**Chapter 7 – …And Your Plants, Too!**

Amélie left a message detailing her uneventful, boring ride home despite arriving well into the evening.

"It's not like they even sent two gunships and a police escort!" she exclaimed, pleasantly surprised by not being attacked again. "Just another one of those IFVs."

After a restless night dreading what her husband would be facing, she decided to head over to the greenhouse early. Amélie was finally able to resume using the area that had been scorched by some kind of explosive after Overwatch combed the entire greenhouse for evidence. There was not a single leaf out of place afterward.

 _Maybe my complaints actually got through to them after all these years._

Unlocking the back entrance, she saw that Chloé and Nolan were going to be by later in the day, but otherwise it would just be customers. With an hour to tidy before opening, she frowned upon noticing dirt had been tracked down several aisles. Moving forward, her eyes darted to the larger front doors used by the public—they'd been smashed open, then sealed shut with plastic. As Amélie pulled her phone to both document this vandalism and file a police report, she became aware of a faint hissing.

 _I didn't set the sprinklers to run at this hour, did I?_

Something made her nose wrinkle. She blundered over to a small "office" (even Amélie didn't like spending _all_ day in a humid greenhouse) next to the checkout counter. She shook her long hair about as she tried to clear bleary eyes.

 _I'm not twenty anymore, I get that. But I went to bed before midnight!_

The door handle seemed to be miles ahead and her arms weighed down by lead. She caught herself stumbling and steadied on the first thing she could grab. The handle turned, causing its door to swing inward. The last thing Amélie saw was an ugly, obvious camera.

 _But he promised…_

At opening time, a line of confused customers tapped on their phones, making double-sure they weren't here before business hours.

"Is it closed today?"

"Does anyone know if Amélie is unwell?"

"Why aren't the fans running?"

An enterprising young man finally thought to check the back.

"I don't know what's in there, but it made me all woozy! I wouldn't go in if I were you!"

"Overwatch agents investigating gas attack at Paris greenhouse" blared a scrolling headline.

"I hope I can get a refund" complained one distraught buyer. "Look!"

He shook dead, brown flowers that clearly had a label with his name on them before a news crew. The disappointed paramour was hardly the only one—every plant inside the greenhouse had turned brown, brittle, and very dead.

"Investigators found a set of crudely-rigged cameras inside the facility, but were unable to issue comment on who might have put them there" continued the reporter. "Thankfully, the gas found was determined to be a simple stun agent, not lethal to humans but indisputably damaging to plant life. All people exposed were discharged from nearby hospitals with clean bills of health."

The image shifted to a picture of Amélie Lacroix.

"The owner, a woman around thirty years old named Amélie Lacroix, has also been reported missing. Anyone with information on her whereabouts should contact the Police Prefecture."


	8. This Ain't Paris Anymore

**Chapter 8 – This Ain't Paris Anymore**

She woke to smells of what she guessed was a hand-prepared meal. Amélie inhaled deeply, smiling before opening her eyes, then chuckling quietly at the probable mess that would now exist in the kitchen.

 _That's so sweet—Gérard can't cook to save his life and I'm probably going to have to scour the dishes. It's the thought that counts!_

Amélie suddenly realized this wasn't her bed. Or her house, for that matter. None of her ceilings were this ugly, flat gray, and the bed might as well have been the concrete floor of her greenhouse.

"Where am I?"

 _This has to be a dream. Or I've been drafted into a terrible movie._

A single light illuminated the food she'd smelled upon waking. Though its aroma remained and its appearance suggested that the flavor would match her first impression, the fact that everything was slopped onto what looked like a metal cafeteria tray killed what little ambience could be said to exist. She stumbled over to the table, taking a seat in a hard, unforgiving chair.

It dawned on her that her clothes had been swapped for medical robes.

Upon finishing her food, the tray disappeared in a flash of light.

 _Vishkar_ she thought, letting a venomous hatred fill her head.

What happened next did little to dispel her suspicions, as a holographic man appeared across the table.

"You are here because you can help us."

"You could have just asked" she replied irritably. "No need to gas my greenhouse and have me wake up in whatever godforsaken place this is!"

"Do you realize you've been swept up in the same corrupt, self-serving, violent organization that you once so nobly protested against?"

Amélie opened her mouth to reply but was overrun.

"Of course, of course, _they're different now._ They've changed. Or have they? Overwatch still gobbles up over half of discretionary spending in most nations that are part of it. Most oversight is paper-thin. They still conduct assassinations, espionage, and wanton destruction of civilian property."

"As if you can talk" she seethed. "Or has Vishkar papered over Rio de Janeiro?"

"We are not Vishkar."

The non-debate debate continued for a time before two guards abruptly dragged Amélie from whatever room she'd awoken in. The ensuing timespan blended together as a series of vicious vignettes.

"UHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

She took a huge breath as her head returned to air again. By this point she couldn't tell how many times she'd been forced face-first into nearly-frozen water. The most disturbing part wasn't the torture itself—it was that those administering it showed no emotion whatsoever. On _MorningWatch_ , the villains always took sadistic pleasure in tormenting the heroes, which made their eventual defeat that much more exciting for the kids. Here, they might well have been pre-Omnics, robotically submerging her at semi-random (but short) intervals.

The mattress in her room no longer felt like wood under her back. She swore they'd changed it, but couldn't be sure it wasn't just her mind playing tricks. After all, she'd just been nearly drowned, then roughly shoved back into her quarters.

Just as Amélie began to drift off to sleep, a low pulsating hum began to emanate from somewhere in her room. She tossed, turned, as if to make it go away. Whatever it was, it receded and her fall toward unconsciousness resumed only to be brutally slain by a screeching klaxon.

"Am I imagining things?" she wondered aloud, thinking she heard Overwatch advertisements playing underneath the cacophony of noise. Whatever it was, its pitch and volume shifted just enough to naturally grab the brain's attention and keep her from tuning it out or getting used to it.

After what could have only been an hour or two, Holo-Man returned.

"You probably see this sort of thing in vids" he began. "But I really do want to help you. The more cooperative you are with me, the less… _harsh_ …I can convince my compatriots to be."

"Good-cop-bad-cop." She spat at his image, even though all it did was pass through and land on the floor behind. "Save your games and just tell me what the hell you want."

"I don't know" he replied. "It's not what I want, it's what _you_ want."

 _Ugh. More talk straight out of that old sci-fi flick with the short green alien who liked to talk in riddles. Mind what you have learned. Save you, it can._

Amélie vowed to double-down on what little anti-interrogation training she'd received as the spouse of an Overwatch agent. She had no rank or serial number, but she created a mantra anyway.

 _I am Amélie Labelle Lacroix. I am in harmony with myself and my plants. My birthday is 7 November._

"Is it getting warm in here?"

"Quite possible" replied Holo-Man. "I do not control the temperature in your room. That is left to my more unsavory associates."

 _Casse-toi, bâtard!_

The last time she'd been in a room like this, she'd gone to the sauna with some friends. Now, it was just oppressively hot, humid, and…yep. There's the noise-generator again!

Her thoughts were a roiling boil of unprintable words combined with "Vishkar." Holo-Man might like to pretend that's not who they were, but everything that happened so far suggested otherwise: the tray, Holo-Man himself, several hard-light probes (whose wounds still stung).

 _I am Amélie Labelle Lacroix._

Observers were amused the façade lasted this long.

"She still thinks we're those Vishkar nutjobs" said one.

"Well, it looks like stealing their tech while dressed as anti-Omnic extremists was worth the effort then!"

Speaking of the tray, it reappeared, this time covered in some kind of gray gruel. Holo-Man's voice emanated from the same audio system that tormented her moments ago: "If you'd been more cooperative, we could have brought back the _Blanquette de Veau_ , but since you can't tell us what you want I am limited to providing basic nutrition."

"What I want is to leave this place and never eat _merde_ like this again" she shouted.

A small part of her was grateful for the waterboarding. It was at least cooler than her room, which might well have been the center of the sun. Woozy, uncoordinated, and stumbling, she had to be supported by guards to make the journey from one hellhole to another.

 _I am in harmony with myself and my plants._

"We've had her for a week!" snapped the base commander. "Why isn't this moving faster?"

In her room, Amélie shivered. Of course they'd baked her, then dunked her in freezing water, then brought her back to her room whose temperature slowly slid toward the same level of unpleasantness as the water she'd been in. Just as she'd gotten used to the cold, her eyes were assaulted by flashing lights like the type found in video arcades—the ones with "epileptic seizure warning" plastered all over.

 _My birthday is 7 November_.

"If we use everything at once, she'll tune parts of it out!" protested one of the scientists responsible for overseeing Lacroix's "conversion." "We can't just throw the kitchen sink at her!"

"Her husband will be back from that conference soon—and once he realizes she is gone, all of Overwatch will be combing every desert, rainforest, city, and monastery looking for his lost wife!"

"Where is Mdme. Lacroix?"

This question was on the minds and lips of all five of the "GreenWatch" (as they'd dubbed themselves). Neither repeat customers nor their caseworkers had anything to tell them.

"She probably went on vacation" was the best lie anyone could come up with.

Now, even her bed turned against her. It seemed the mattress developed random even-more-uncomfortable spots that moved about between "sessions."

 _Now comes the…audio? No, wait! Lights!_ She'd predicted the change-of-method with slightly more than 50% accuracy, but this time found herself disappointed as the humidity in her room began to climb alongside a shift in temperature rather than being assaulted with illumination that wouldn't have been out of place at a rock concert.

 _Temperature_ she thought. As if on cue, it began to plunge.

 _I am Amélie Labelle Lacroix…_


	9. Ghosts Among the Machines

**Chapter 9 – Ghosts Among the Machines**

There were definitely snippets of Overwatch propaganda from the old days being played along with the throbbing, pulsing audiological attacks.

 _We are hope._

Amélie gave Holo-Man what he wanted to hear—her own honest goal to escape the facility.

"And blow it sky high" she muttered. There were rare times she agreed with Overwatch's application of "overwhelming, uncompromising force." She would love nothing more than to watch this place burn.

For a time, it seemed this lessened her punishments—better food, shorter waterboarding sessions, fewer temperature swings. But that was an illusion.

 _We are honour_.

Now when she slept, she had nightmares. Her old compatriots from her museum days, many anti-Overwatch, throwing eggs and jeering at her in a very public place. If she was lucky, she'd be wearing clothes in these horror shows. The worst ones culminated with a march of shame through downtown Paris, dragged by grotesque appropriations having the bodies of her adult friends but the heads of GreenWatch.

"Upper-class bitch!"

"Sellout!"

Some of the things she was taunted with in her own head were worse than curses she'd silently thrown at Vishkar. Many played on the fact that she (despite the torture) was still an attractive woman around 30, threatening things so vile she more than once woke up choking on bits of her own vomit.

 _We are courage_.

Her mantra held. Not that she knew anything (virtually all of what Gérard would tell her could be found openly broadcast on the news with official Overwatch okay anyway), but she refused to give any satisfaction to those who must be ordering the borderline-automatons about. She and Gérard had no children of their own, but with his tacit acknowledgement of her informal adoption it felt like they did. Amélie focused on them, compelling herself to be strong like she'd always told them to be.

 _We are justice._

"If they think kidnapping my wife will make me give up, they have messed with the wrong man" growled Gérard upon returning to find his wife's face in the local news as a "missing person." He pulled out _every_ stop and connection he could muster, receiving assurances that Lena "Tracer" Oxton and her pal Winston would _personally_ search for Amélie.

 _We are compassion_.

The "Lacroix Five" suddenly found themselves a minor _cause célèbre_. The non-profit working their cases mysteriously received enough funding to cover its operating budget and then some for two years. Overnight.

Amélie took to composing songs like Raphael did, inspired as he was by his Lúcio action figure. She kept them to herself, using them to augment the three lines she'd repeated thousands of times by now.

 _We are determination._

The session today differed greatly from all that she could remember. Through ears strained by repeated torments, she heard children's voices.

"What an idiot" said a voice that sounded suspiciously like Clement.

"But look what we got for those silly toys!" said Chloé viciously. "All this money!"

Bleary eyes told her that Raphael was holding some kind of magazine no kid his age should see. "See?" he pointed. "I bet she looks like this one!"

Lucie openly fanned through a pile of euro notes.

The only one not participating was Nolan.

"Aw, look at stupid Nolan" taunted Lucie. "Still thinks that stuck-up" (Amélie's shocked gasp drowned out most of hearing words like that come from a child) "lady actually cared! Maybe he can find his real daddy in the NAP!"

She tried to close her eyes, turn away, but Amélie found herself physically restrained like some kind of violent prisoner. After it finally ended, she was dragged back to her quarters where she welcomed the klaxons that blasted her ears and kept her awake. At least she didn't have to see _that_ again.

"Do you think she bought it?" asked one. "Some of that video editing was pretty bad, and the vocal tuning was awful."

Her compatriot gave a look as if she'd suggested up was down.

"What do you think?"

Amélie Lacroix's anguished wails were almost loud enough to drown out the audio being used to torment her.

 _We are harmony._

As if all this wasn't enough, the slurs of her dreams invaded her reality. Those responsible for carting a nearly catatonic Amélie about suddenly began shouting very similar insults to the ones that terrorized her sleep. When one door closed, the next set of guards would pick up exactly where the previous group left off, a perfect chorus of denigrating comments.

Holo-Man was at first sympathetic, but over time began to question whether or not "you did anything to deserve or provoke this treatment. Carefully consider that nobody said _anything_ for the three weeks you've been here so far…"

 _I don't know what they want. I can't give them what I don't have. Why don't they just kill me? Can't they just let me die?_

 **WE. ARE. OVERWATCH!** blared the speakers in her room.


	10. Self-Medication

**Chapter 10 – Self-Medication**

Midway through week three, Amélie Lacroix had been downgraded to "Non-Threat" and thus was only moved about by scientists. Mercifully, they said virtually nothing (ending the rain of insults) other than to acknowledge her existence as "the subject." During one such change-of-scenery, three of them stopped to speak about something, employing lengthy words she had virtually no understanding of.

 _Even Gérard would probably be confused._

Surprisingly, Amélie hadn't been completely starved. Though her food usually took on a disgusting appearance, she forced herself to eat it on the slim hope she might one day awaken to see Overwatch's guns blazing as they tore her personal hell to bits. It was ironic, in a way, that she gained an understanding of exactly how her husband and other Overwatch agents could have such visceral desires to destroy, kill, and obliterate certain types of people only by being subjected to the whims of such people herself. She still wondered if they flirted with the edge of becoming exactly what they purported to hate, but even Blackwatch was not _this_ brutal.

 _Maybe they'll be finished with me today. Like I've hoped every day since I got handed to the lab coats._

Whatever they were talking about, one disagreed strongly with the others. He gestured rapidly and in large motions, articulating his opinion by shouting over his companions.

The duality of hoping for rescue and death at the same time led her to take a risk. She only studied biology as it was required as "life science" at university, but remembered the "biohazard" symbol on sight. A trolley trundled down the hallway, followed by what she assumed was a lab technician. Not proficient in combat of any kind, she'd have to smash-and-grab. Quickly, she deduced the easiest method would be an injection needle, not the large container on the trolley's bottom. Several of them adorned the left side but had latches holding them down, probably to keep anyone from getting accidentally poked by whatever these purple fluids were.

As the tech and his cart passed to her right, she lunged, bodyslamming herself into the section with the needles.

She smiled as two pricks registered on her right arm and shoulder. She pressed herself against them, hoping it would push the injectors down and fill her body with whatever biohazard adorned this cart.

 _Just let me die._

Amélie could feel herself slipping away.

 _Yes…let this be the end. Just let me die._

She would have screamed if she could, waking up to the obnoxious beeping of an EKG in a hospital bed. Instead, curses flowed freely through her fogged mind as she realized whatever she'd done hadn't been enough. Some kind of mask covered her mouth and nose while her limbs were restrained (again).

The shouting scientist laughed in the faces of those who doubted his work.

"The subject is very much alive, though I had no idea she planned to accelerate our schedule!" he'd said in a report to superiors. "The injections were…shall we say…unplanned and suboptimal. However, she did survive!"

"While requiring a nontrivial amount of investment before she was ready" replied his superior coldly. "The subject is not in the correct mental state to be converted. This is an awful risk—it had better work!"

"I will not disappoint you. Begin the procedure!"


	11. Compliance Will Be Rewarded

**Chapter 11 – Compliance Will Be Rewarded**

Amélie Lacroix groped about in a fog. She couldn't think straight, she couldn't see straight, she couldn't even be sure where she was anymore.

 _I am…Amélie Labelle…wait…Lacroix!_

"Her brainwave patterns are destabilizing. We should be able to suppress and rewrite in less than a week."

Barely conscious, Amélie couldn't take in the sheer number of tubes, machines, and technology attached to her. Varying translucent lines both put fluid in and took it out. Wires interfaced directly with nerve tissue. A massive headpiece enabled immediate taps into her brain. Her right arm lay open to the bone as various stimulants and nanomachines were tested on her muscles and skeletal structure.

 _I am in harmony with myself and… And the spiders on my plants…_

She wanted to stop thinking about spiders, but they kept intruding. As a girl, Amélie had been absolutely terrified of spiders, thinking the emotionless killing machines. Perhaps it had something to do with witnessing a spider kill and eat a butterfly she'd grown from a caterpillar, "but that's nature's way" said her mother to her distraught cries of "Why? How could it be so heartless?"

Her mom then tried to explain that spiders didn't really have emotions—there was no conscious thought of enjoyment. Only a desire to feed, a base instinct. No different than a housecat chasing a sparrow. This offered no solace to little Amélie watching her project struggling to escape a web well beyond her reach before being consumed, and she stomped off to her room.

As an adult, she tolerated the spiders because they killed off pests threatening her gardens, but tried to not focus on them.

It was as if her thoughts were no longer directed by her consciousness, they wandered to random places.

 _My… My birthday is 24 May… Wait a minute, that's my anniversary…_

"We're bubbling up thoughts of childhood fears" reported one scientist to the lead. "It's causing her mental anguish and breaking her focus."

"For someone who isn't an Overwatch agent, she has annoyingly sturdy mental defenses" confessed the project leader. "Increase chemical dosages, and deepen her sleep during imprinting."

Instead of humiliation, Amélie dreamed of death. Death caused by her own hands as each kill drenched them in more blood. That young woman Lena "Tracer" Oxton, shot through the strange device she wore all the time. An old romantic rival from her university days—how petty! Jumbles of faces she didn't recognize, until…

"Nolan?" Somehow aged, he looked at least twenty.

"You… You failed us" he gasped, fighting to speak through the pain of a large-caliber bullet wound.

"But most of all" said Chloé, a disgusting walking corpse from half a dozen shots, _you betrayed him._ "

Seeing Gérard's head stuck on the end of a sniper rifle identical to the one she didn't realize she'd been holding so traumatized her that Amélie woke, setting off alarms across several departments responsible for her "conversion."

She looked down. Her hands were still restrained and free of any unnatural coloration.

"She's conscious! Put her back under!" yelped a panicked technician. "The imprint will fail if she stays awake too long!"

Gritting her teeth, Amélie steeled herself with her thoughts.

 _I am Amélie Labelle Lacroix!_

Flash.

"Congratulations on a successful mission." A man whose face remained hidden in darkness shook her hand. Looking down, she realized her left wrist had something on it, but wasn't sure why she would wear what looked like some kind of purple cylinder launcher.

A large screen showed a red "X" through the face of almost every Overwatch hero.

"We've destroyed Overwatch, and the world will now follow the will of Talon!"

Everything vanished, though she could still move about. Echoes and whispers filled the pure-white void.

" _Why? Why would you do this?"_

" _I'm not a monkey, I'm a SCIENTIST!"_

" _What happened to you?"_


	12. Recovery

**Chapter 12 – Recovery**

"I'm sorry, Colonel. Athena, Winston, and Tracer can find no information about Amélie. It's not for lack of trying…"

Gérard mutely accepted a data drive containing hundreds of leads and thousands of pieces of evidence (sanitized to his clearance level). None of it led anywhere, even though many seemed promising up to the very end.

His wife vanished over a month ago. He'd returned to find an empty house and closed business as "the proprietor has been placed on the local list of missing persons."

So upon returning from a touch-point with the Egyptian Army's Raptora unit over vidcall to find Amélie cooking dinner as if nothing happened, he was more than a bit shocked.

"I just had to spend some time alone" she'd answered after he asked what happened. "It was a bit of a shock what happened to my business—and I needed to get professional help."

He didn't press the issue. Anyone who investigated further would be unable to find any corroborating patient records, private supplemental insurance claims, or check-ins at nearby hospitals to support her story, leaving a completely dead end. Even if she was lying (which he firmly believed she was), no additional avenues of investigation existed. Thus, Gérard concluded he should not question fortune.

The Colonel did think it odd that she wasn't absolutely bashing down doors to reopen her greenhouse.

"I'll get to it" she'd said serenely, _too_ serenely at that. It tore him up; his wife was back, but something just felt _off_. _Wrong_. But what was he going to do, send her to Overwatch's psychological evaluation wing? A discreet appointment was made, though due to an influx of possible recruits and her apparently-normal personality she got bumped to the back of a months-long line.

She also ignored messages left by social services, which Gérard couldn't understand. They'd essentially adopted in all-but-houseroom the five kids who helped around her greenhouse, and suddenly she no longer cared for their well-being?

" _Fine_ " she huffed after one-too-many "concerned" talks from her husband. "I'll go see what's going on out there."

She left for the greenhouse, annoyed that he simply would not drop it.

Upon arriving, Amélie found herself surrounded by anxious would-be customers inquiring when the greenhouse would reopen.

"Soon" she replied.

A few of her well-wishers were shorter than the rest.

"Mdme. Lacroix! We've missed you!" chorused GreenWatch.

"Also" said Clement rather shyly, "Mei's power cells are empty again." He held the toy up toward the woman they had come to regard as a surrogate mother.

"Oh, just buy some new ones" she replied absentmindedly, as if she'd forgotten it would take all five of their daily pay combined to purchase just one. Mei needed two.

"What happened to her?" asked Lucie after Lacroix left. "It's like she's never met us before."

"I knew it!" thundered Gérard upon fielding a call from social services reporting the kids' strange experiences with Amélie. "Something's wrong, and I need to get that appointment moved up."


	13. Normal

**Chapter 13 – Normal**

Amélie had never been one for big, fancy (and thus crowded) restaurants in Paris despite living there most of her life. No desire to scrimp and save for that one night on the town. She was perfectly happy with small establishments. At least that hadn't changed as they sat down in a dining room that probably had ten tables total.

 _She saw her husband like a patron at a movie theater, looking through her own eyes but not moving them. Hearing her voice, but not commanding it. Watching Clement's look of crushed dejection after "she" blew off his request for more power cells almost made her give up._

 _No. I will not die a monster._

"…we should just get away" Gérard was saying. "I have some leave coming up—the MEKA people can get someone else to analyze their claimed Talon intrusion."

With a flourish, he pulled out two tickets to the United States.

"Route 66. As promised."

Her face: a mask of indifference. One of the places she had on her bucket list, and she could not seem to care less.

"That's nice, dear."

 _This is a place I've always wanted to see since I was a girl, and that's all?_

Gérard took a deep breath. Once you used the "d" word, you couldn't take it back.

"It's me and my long tours, isn't it" he sighed. "I always wondered if it would come to this. Listen, you can have the house. I won't contest it—I can live on-base. Just…just promise me you'll take care of those kids, okay? Social services said they thought you were acting strangely, and I don't want them to suffer because of what happens to us."

 _No, no, no!_

"That's not it" replied Amélie, though her flat and emotionless tone left him unconvinced she meant anything she said. "I can't describe it to you, it's a feeling that I've been…called to a different purpose."

"Not funny" deadpanned Gérard. "You're not old enough for a midlife crisis yet!"

The next morning, the Colonel checked _himself_ in with a counselor. He wasn't sure if it really was him, Amélie, both, or something else.

"I'll start filling out insurance claims today" she'd said as she hugged him goodbye to his waiting IFV. This time, it was a briefing by top scientists about the "Moon issue."

 _I've met statues with more warmth than that! And no kiss? She just hasn't come to terms with really wanting a divorce yet…_

"Package for you from Birdclaw Corporation."

Amélie thumbprinted for it.

 _She watched her hands unwrap some kind of bodysuit. It wouldn't have been out of place in a video game, or even among some of Overwatch's cast of heroes. A…a rifle? But how did it fit in this small package? She'd never handled a weapon in her life, yet her petite fingers flew across the dozens of pieces, assembling it like it were something practiced for years._

 _Shouldering it, she swept back and forth, only afterward realizing anyone on the street could have seen her. Amélie drew the shades._

 _A cylinder filled with a violently-yellow liquid reminded her of the injections she'd been given. Clearly, she was expected to use this or the rifle to complete her task._

 _A small piece of paper fluttered out of the briefcase._

" _Would you kindly eliminate your target by tomorrow, Widowmaker?"_

 _No, no, NO!_


	14. Last Dance

**Chapter 14 – Last Dance**

Amélie sat quietly at her kitchen table. She knew that whatever Vishkar (or, assuming they weren't lying, not-Vishkar; one of her nightmares mentioned Talon) had done to her would compel a murder when Gérard arrived home. She yearned to call the police, send a message to Overwatch, anything to let _somebody_ know that she was about to do something terrible. But her body refused to obey.

The small ball that Amélie Lacroix became in her own mind watched fearfully as Gérard stepped from his IFV. The package from "Birdclaw Corporation" had been completely hidden; he'd never see it coming. She winced, expecting to find a scope in front of her eye, a perfect shot lined up on an unsuspecting agent as he walked to his own front door.

 _Her hands prepared the same practiced recipe that she'd made hundreds of times. The table set itself at speed._

" _How was the meeting? Boring as usual?"_

Something seemed different about Amélie. Her poise, her voice, she was more _herself_ than she'd been for weeks. She no longer gave off the impression of a statue just going through the motions.

 _I want him to remember me. The real me…_

It took almost every ounce of her energy to inject humanity into the automaton her torturers turned her into. Gérard noticed, however. The dour fear of divorce left his face, taking years off his aged expressions. As the hours ticked by, her unseen agony increased.

"What's wrong?"

" _Oh, it's just those insurance company paper-pushers. They gave me the run-around, as you'd expect."_

 _Run. Run away and never return. RUN!_

Gérard decided to turn in early, which made perfect sense considering he got home late and his whole day consisted of listening to people confuse volume for validity in the ongoing debate over what to do about the "monkeys on the moon." He didn't even ask why she wasn't coming to bed yet.

 _Her hands wrapped themselves around the rifle she'd assembled earlier in the day as she retrieved it from a cabinet, snapped it back together, and prepared to do as commanded. One shot, one kill. She started up the stairs._

 _NO._

If she couldn't stop the inevitable, she could at least try to influence how it happened. Slowly, agonizingly, Amélie forced the weapon down. Her nerves were on fire, her whole body felt like it had been filled with razors. Only now, at the end, could she summon the willpower to make things happen her way.

Instead, a glowing yellow needle adorned her right hand.

 _I can only hope this makes it a quiet, peaceful murder…_

The rifle appeared in her left hand again, as if summoned by some sorcery. She couldn't seem to overwhelm whatever commanded her to carry it, though her right hand did not treasonously drop the poison, or whatever it was, that she'd picked up.

Gérard awoke to two things. Amélie must have come to bed as her nightstand's light clicked on. What didn't make sense was cold steel along his back. He turned over, and his heart stopped.

Amélie. But not the beautiful woman he'd married—instead, a face so twisted with anguish that it hurt his soul to see it even cast only in dim light. Her right hand held some kind of injector, oversized and nasty-looking. Only then did the worst possible outcome of why she'd been so _odd_ strike him. Her left draped over his prone body, preventing escape. He never _saw_ the monster rifle she held, but he recognized the steel of a weapon's touch from his years in Overwatch Military Operations.

He closed his eyes, accepting the end.

Gérard instead felt twin sources of dampness on his forehead. One he recognized as his wife's lips, the other… He didn't hear the words she mouthed as the needle pricked his skin.

Then his nerves caught fire. He rose from the bed and bellowed in agony like a wounded animal, muffling a borderline-comical "beep" that emitted from Talon's toxic tool after it was emptied into his bloodstream. Half a second later, Gérard Lacroix's conscious life ended as a bullet tore through his skull at point-blank range.

She couldn't scream or wipe away the tears that formed as she'd done the deed. She tried, oh she tried so hard to turn the weapon on herself. Her muscles were aflame, her joints froze. Her finger pulled the trigger again and again, hoping to at least cause a scene that would bring police or Overwatch running. Instead, her efforts were rewarded with a persistent _click-click-click_.

Amélie Lacroix summoned every last bit of mental fortitude she could muster. Twisting herself away into the darkness, she relieved herself of seeing her husband's blood on her clothing as she worked her way toward the roof. A fall from two stories would not kill, but maybe she could make herself useless to her new masters. Maybe, if she crippled her body, they'd release her from this hell.

The all-consuming fire no longer bothered her as she forced her feet in front of each other. It also distracted her thoughts from a low hum above.

Wordlessly, she plunged off the roof of her own house, endeavoring to twist herself into landing neck/headfirst.

Something even sharper than that which punished her rebellion seared Amélie's consciousness, but it wasn't the release of death or the satisfying impact of cobblestone. Instead, four burning stars now resided in her back.

The black-clad stealth aircraft she'd missed before hauled her in.

"Subject retrieved via grappling hook. Mission accomplished, target is eliminated."


	15. Widowmaker

**Chapter 15 – Widowmaker**

Now that Talon had complete assurance of their new subject's loyalty whether the pitiful remnants of the original consciousness wanted it or not, the remainder of augmentation could take place. Injections of the serum Amélie had added to the mix unexpectedly were increased with the goal of lowering her metabolic rate. It would throw off heat-scanners and steady her aim. It also had a side-effect of turning her skin an eerie blue—and who would believe reports of a blue woman with a rifle?

Even Overwatch found this notion absurd. But what they didn't know about Talon's technological advances beyond even their own wouldn't hurt them. Not yet, anyway.

The original bodysuit deemed inadequate, "Widowmaker" now donned a new piece of outerwear that even further concealed her thermal signature… Or would have if it wasn't open in so many places.

"By the time her targets are done staring, they'll be dead" laughed the designers. "At least they'll die looking at something worthwhile."

The personality born of chemical and torture took over completely. Widowmaker's obsession with spider imagery resulted in new tattoos, and the adoption of a spider-shaped weapon called the Widow Mine distilled into a more potent version of the venom that killed Gérard.

She hungered only for the completion of missions, especially those which demanded blood be spilled. The sneakier, the better.

A to-do list included many actions that would destabilize, undermine, and scatter Overwatch.

Obtaining Overwatch weaponry with a focus on the legendary Gauntlet of Doomfist

Agitating Omnics into war with humans through targeted assassination

Exploiting tensions within Overwatch itself between its squeaky-clean public face and its nastier Blackwatch division

Sowing mistrust among Overwatch "face" agents

Covertly assisting Vishkar Corporation where common interests existed

Covertly sabotaging Vishkar Corporation where Talon's interests were different

Stirring dissent in extremist groups, pushing them toward violent action

Creating paranoia about these very same groups among the general population

"We must strengthen self-preservation in Widowmaker" warned the project's top scientist. "Near-death experiences may empower the lingering Amélie Lacroix personality…"


End file.
